If you’re the sort of person who reads Dazed And Confused magazine and hangs out in London’s trendy Shoreditch (it is still Shoreditch these days, I take it?), then you’ll probably be able to detect, ooh, a good five or six additional layers of artful post-modern so-far-In-that-it’s-Out-which-makes-it-back-In-again irony. (Because in certain circles, irony is always, always In.)

However, as someone whose bleeding-hedge-zeitgeist days are receding faster than his hairline (look, it’s a HIGH SIDE PARTING, okay?), I have finally attained that blissful state of grace which puts me above and beyond such transitory considerations. Meaning that I can simply enjoy this as nothing more or less than a quaint piece of Olde Tyme Dance Musick.

My parents’ generation probably felt the same way about Showaddywaddy.